


For Today

by rubycrowned



Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Fluffity Fluff Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sickening Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today, the world owes Harry and Louis happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transgenicveins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgenicveins/gifts).



> hey! whaddya know...i haven't disappeared off the face of the earth after all...
> 
> this is for madi - HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANGEL AND CONGRATULATIONS ON FINISHING UNI. love you loads sweetheart <33

It's not the first time Harry's seen him.

It'd be hard to miss him, someone with so much vibrant energy that they almost radiate with it.

Harry's watched him enter with his mate, the dark-haired boy who seems to be a study in contrasts with the boy he saunters in next to. They'll sit at the side of the lecture theatre, near-ish to the front, because most of the seats are already filled when they arrive just a moment or two before this week's lecturer begins blowing on the mic, causing the entire class to jerk their heads in his or her direction; glaring at the painful disruption to early morning discussions.

His name is Louis, Niall tells him. Niall knows everyone on campus, it seems; taking a walk anywhere with him is always an effort in order to go more than a few dozen steps without being tugged into another exchange with a mate from this class or that party.

And Louis knows who Harry is, too. At the very least is aware of his existence enough to give a nod of recognition when he passed by Harry on his way out of the campus cafe the other week, with a smile that was more in his eyes than his lips, too busy taking a sip of his drink.

Harry knows next to nothing about him, but he would like to, he thinks.

There's just something that intrigues him, is all.

So, when it's seven fifty-five on a Tuesday morning, and the sun's barely rising, with a chill in the air warning of the frozen months soon to come.

When Harry's striding across the quad so he can slide into his seat and set up his laptop before the lecture begins.

When a hand wraps itself around the bones of Harry's wrist.

When Harry turns and he's halfway up the steps and he can see the sun kissing golden over the tops of the buildings and trees - and yet it somehow pales in beauty to the halo highlighting every stray strand of hair of the boy next to him, to the open smile that feels a little like trust and a lot like _happy_.

When the boy leans close enough to tickle the hairs of Harry's neck as he exhales.

When Louis tugs on Harry's wrist and whispers, " _Run_."

Harry follows.

***

Light filters in, softened by the green of leaves un-succumbing to autumn’s red, yellow, golden hues, to speckle life into the tired, dilapidated room.

"You couldn't just have said ' _hello_ '?" Harry asks with the barest of smirks.

He spreads his arms and spins slowly on the spot, head raised to the heavens, even if all he can see is beams of wood peeking through holes in the scorched once-white plaster of the ceiling.

_The first building on campus_ , Louis had told him, when Harry begged askance as they skirted the tape, the boarded up doors, the heavy air warning passers-by to keep on walking. That caution seemed completely removed once they were inside; here the air is cool, light, a haven amongst the ruin. Plants are beginning to work their way between the floorboards, glimpses of startling emerald and shaded forest green taking back what once was theirs.

_When they tightened all the building regulations, they had to close it; too far below code, and too expensive to fix up. Kept saying they would, but then some dickhead set it on fire the year before I started here._

Louis had looked almost forlorn when he'd gripped the doorframe he was passing through, pushing at it as though to prove its integrity; damaged and abandoned or not. _Reckon they'll likely just knock it down now. Make room for something new._

Now Louis looks over to Harry - standing still but arms not yet dropped to his sides - from where he's perched on one of the lower steps of a particularly fragile-looking staircase. He smiles, but Harry doesn't think it reaches his eyes this time.

"There's no time."

"No time?" He blinks, cocks his head in confusion.

Louis shakes his head. "For small talk. For hesitation." He looks Harry dead in the eye, and Harry wonders if maybe he should be worried; he can't seem to feel anything pumping through his veins other than a strangely peaceful exhilaration, a calming adrenaline. "Today there's no time for any of it. We forget we have class. We forget about responsibility and expectations. We forget about embarrassment and self-doubt; all the what-if's, the but's and the _I'm anything less than perfectly imperfect_. We forget about the fucking status quo. Because _today_ \- just for today - it's ours. Today the world goddamned _owes_ us our happiness. And today we're going to accept it."

Louis spares a glance for his watch. Brings his eyes back to where Harry's stood just a metre before him. "Fifteen hours, ten minutes. How are we going to spend it, Harry?"

And Harry's a little bit struck dumb by Louis' speech - by the unexpectedness of it all bursting forth, frustrated and passionately intense, from someone who had always seemed so cheerily content with his lot. The outside looking in, Harry thinks.

So Harry takes another step closer, bends over so his face is level with Louis', centimetres from his own. And he _smiles_.

"Hi."

Louis blinks. Huffs out a begrudging chuckle as he rolls his eyes, as if Harry had missed the point of everything he'd just said.

But when his eyes meet Harry's again, the sparkle is back in his eyes, lips stretched to show a laughing curve of teeth. And Harry thinks he understood Louis' point perfectly.

"Hi."

***

"C'mon. Which flavour do you want?"

The store's barely open when Louis drags them inside.

"Are you serious?"

"Which flavour?"

"It's only just gone half nine, Lou."

The woman behind the counter is looking at them like maybe they're crazy.

"Which flavour ice cream do you want, Harry?"

Louis' looking at him with eyebrows raised and an expectant draw to his lips.

Harry thinks _for today_ , and can't bring himself to care what the woman thinks.

Maybe she’s right.

Harry grins.

"Boysenberry."

***

“In here.”

Harry slips his fingers between Louis’ and tugs him off the footpath, through the gate and down the gravelled walkways. The paths fork and they twist along with them, left then right at random. Harry does it without thinking, because that’s what Louis asked of him, because sometimes taking thought out of the process is unimaginably freeing.

In the end they tumble to the ground just off one of the paths, a clear patch of dew-wet grass deep enough into the gardens that they can no longer hear the traffic and Harry can pretend they’re in the back of beyond. Now and then the odd passer-by walks only metres away; the tights and trainers clad woman striding briskly on, iPod trapping her into her own narrow world while her dog trots along next to her, leash slack between them; or the kid in his school uniform – skiving off Tuesday morning algebra maybe – shirt untucked and socks gathering around his ankles as he scuffs his way past, barely sparing a glancing frown for the two boys fallen in a heap as the damp slowly seeps into their clothes and ice cream drips down the sides of their hands.

Louis catches the melted, purple-stained trail from Harry’s wrist with a swipe of his finger; Harry watches as he sucks the digit into his mouth, smiling around it at the sweetness and maybe Harry’s surprised expression.

So of course the only natural response is for Harry to tilt his head and lick up the caramel sticking to Louis’ own hand, if only to see the shock on Louis’ face turn into a delighted cackle of laughter as he tackles Harry back into the ground.

The remains of their ice cream cones both get lobbed in the directions of the shrubbery as Louis digs his fingers in under Harry’s ribs, half-way between a tickle and a prod, while he screeches profanities at Harry in the spaces between their laughter.

Harry is certain he could dislodge Louis from where he’s pinning him to the ground, but he can’t find the inclination. Louis settles after a few more moments regardless, wiping his hand – barely even wet anymore – onto Harry’s top with an exaggerated grimace, and falling to his back next to Harry.

“Why here, then?”

Louis’ watching Harry’s face, his neck craned up just a little to see Harry’s expression. Harry watches the sky instead, still mostly-clear azure blue, just a few candyfloss clouds scudding across the bright expanse.

“Dunno. Felt appropriate, I guess; I walk past the entrance every day, two, four, six times. And I’ve never come in before.” He can feel Louis at his side, close enough that on every inhale their arms brush and goosebumps form on Harry’s skin. He doesn’t say, _I see you once, twice, three times a week in class. And I’ve never said ‘hi’_.

Louis squawks like Harry’s done him a personal grievance. “How have you never been inside Carter’s? What kind of orientation to uni did you have if you didn’t end up in here lost at 4am at least once? It’s practically a tradition for freshers to help maintain the garden’s integrity by fertilising the plants with a healthy dose of stomach lining and regret. Thank god you have me to remedy at least part of that.”

Harry shrugs, an answer not really obvious to him. “I dunno. Was still underage when I started so I couldn’t get into many of the big o-week parties.” He pauses, trying to figure out whether omissions of truth against the spirit of the day, a waste of time when it felt almost certain that, sooner or later, Louis would find out everything eventually. “Well. I probably could’ve snuck in if I’d tried, but I didn’t really feel…up to it,” he amends. “I come from a really small town, you know? Everyone knows me, as the kid who got accepted on scholarship to uni, or the one who worked down the bakery on the weekends, or who once lost their swimmers in the pool on carnival day.”

“Oh my god, you _didn’t_ ,” Louis cackles, “How old were you?” And he might be snickering, but his elbow nudges Harry’s arm and somehow he knows Louis _gets it_. Or something.

“We are really, _really_ not going to talk about it,” he insists. “But, yeah. I was something back home, even if it wasn’t always what I wanted to be, and _here_. Here I was suddenly so anonymous, and I knew no one. I got homesick. I spent most of o-week fighting the instinct to catch the next train home and give up on the very idea of uni. Almost might’ve if it wasn’t for my roommate, Niall.” Harry watches as Louis’ face lights up, a response to the fond expression warming his own.

“The blonde guy you’re always hanging out with, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods. “He’s good for me, I think. He’s one of those guys that is genuinely carefree about almost everything, hates being the centre of attention but is always right next to it anyway, because he knows goddamn _everyone_ , and is loyal almost to a fault. So he can’t not show up to a party, or bet a tenner that he can dominate whatever drinking game is flavour of the week, or get thrown out of the pub _again_ because some arsehole couldn’t take a hint when one of the girls said ‘no’. But he also wouldn’t let the scruffy kid he’d known for barely a few days sit in bed feeling like shit because ‘ _you don’t know no one, Harry – you know me_.’ So he managed to make it feel a little more like I have two homes now, gave me enough of a push that I could realise just how brilliant it is here. And in turn I make sure to drag him home from town so he doesn’t fall asleep in the corridor again when he can’t find our door.”

“Sounds like a fair trade.”

Harry’s own laugh catches him by surprise. “Yeah, well. It’s selfish really; sometimes he does make it to our door but can’t get the bloody key in the lock so it’s just him moaning incomprehensibly against the wood until I get up and let him in.”

“I like him,” Louis declares, sitting up; Harry can just make out his grin as he squints against the sunlight behind him. “Maybe more than you.”

“Lies,” Harry dismisses without thought. And maybe it really should be strange that they’re this easy with each other, so soon, with so little foundation for any kind of bond. And maybe it’s because there’s nothing normal about today, this, them. But here they are anyway.

Louis shrugs a shoulder, not bothering with a denial.

“Still can’t believe you’ve never been here.”

“Haven’t done a lot of things,” Harry admits. “Looks like we’re changing that today, though. I mean, up until now I’d never been here, or skipped class so I could get ice cream for breakfast.” Harry counts the points off against his fingers, “I’d never said hi to you.”

_Until you dragged me away to a crumbling building and told me I deserved happiness._

Louis stands, brushing his palms against the arse of his jeans, extends a hand to Harry and tilts his head to the side.

“Well then. Don’t reckon we should stop now.”

***

“I always feel like I should be dubious of any meal that only costs me two quid,” Harry admits, even as he takes a substantial bite out of his steak burger, “but these are always so goddamn delicious.”

Louis swipes a chip from Harry’s plate, mopping up some of the sauce and grease that had escaped from the bun, despite the stack of his own sitting right in front of him.

“I’m pretty sure I spent more time here during my first couple of weeks at uni than I did at my dorm,” he considers.

“Until you reached the point where not even two-for-one shots and an easy stumbling-home distance made up for the sticky floors that take your shoes hostage and the distinct sense of violation once you leave?”

The Bowler is one of the pubs right on the edge of campus itself, barely a five minute walk from any of the university accommodation, and as such, even Harry has frequented it far more times than is probably considered sanitary. It’s close-by, cheap and, well that’s about all it has going for it, but for the first semester or so, when everyone is newly legal and highly motivated by under-priced booze and countless bodies grinding on the dance floor, it’s the best place on Earth.

And then you discover there is more than one bar in the city. And that your chance of catching gonorrhoea just by entering the bathrooms doesn’t have to be as good as a coin toss. And you stop going.

Well. Except for the two pound lunch menu.

But the look Louis gives him is one of hurt. “I was going to say now I’ve cut it back to bi-weekly visits.”

“Oh god, I didn’t mean- I just-” Harry’s own face contorts in horror at the thought that he might have struck something which actually offended Louis.

“Ha! You believed me!” Louis crows in delight, clapping his hands and grinning maniacally; Harry doesn’t think he deserves to be told about the lettuce caught between his teeth. “Please. Do you honestly think so little of me? I haven’t been in this place after sunset since I was nought but a fresher.”

“That’s a lie,” a new voice cuts into the conversation. It’s the boy Harry has always seen with Louis, now walking into Harry’s line of vision with a smirk quirking his features, just as amused as his tone had suggested. “The only time he’s missed a paint party here was the night he tried to pole dance round a stop sign and wound up in A&E with a broken nose.”

“Holy shit, you’re kidding,” Harry snorts, “Please tell me you have footage of that.”

“It’s kept in a locked case of blackmail material in an undisclosed location, I’m afraid.”

“Such a shame. However. Say I manage to establish my own blackmail-able information…”

“A swap would of course be both natural and _right_.” The other boy grins properly, and his face is simultaneously so mischievous and beautiful that Harry kind of wants to poke him, make sure he’s really flesh and bone. “Hi, by the way. ‘M Zayn.”

Harry sticks his hand across the table and when Zayn grasps on it does _feel_ as though it’s human. “Harry.”

“For the record I _almost_ nailed that flip-spin,” Louis attempts to interject, only to be ignored.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re mates with Niall, right? Good guy; shared some pretty decent weed with me at a party or three,” and Harry nods because that does sound like his Niall. “So’d Louis finally convince you to go on a date with him?”

“ _No_ ,” Louis hisses, staring at Zayn in abject horror, even as Harry stifles a laugh and tries to ignore the flush he can feel tinting his cheeks, especially at the way Zayn’s eyes flick between them, studying Harry curiously.

“Nah, he just kidnapped me instead.”

“Louis, that’s rude.”

“I _rescued_ him.”

“I’ve told you before; Stockholm Syndrome is not a thing you’re actually allowed to do in real life.”

Even when he’s teasing Louis to the point where he’s red in the face and making strange huffing noises, Zayn remains remarkably put together, his voice lilting just a little, sounds blending together. Harry falls a little in love with the way he speaks, subdued to Louis’ chaos, but with a quiet passion and sharp wit that dances in his eyes and flows through to the tap of his fingers against the liquor-sticky table top.

“I’m not- It’s a _thing_.”

Harry decides maybe he should intervene before Louis’ face actually explodes, hilarious as his floundering may be, and as much as he’d like to continue this train of thought with Zayn.

“It is. A thing, that is. An adventure.”

“An adventure which we must continue,” Louis declares, shoving the last stray chips into his mouth and grabbing Harry’s wrist from the table, dragging him to standing, “Unfortunately loving and leaving you, Zayner, which truly is a tragedy, but eh; you win some, you lose some.”

When Harry twists around to wave farewell, Zayn is rolling his eyes, longsuffering.

“I still want to see that video,” he calls behind him.

“I’ll nick your number off Louis’ phone; we can arrange an exchange,” Zayn promises.

“Good _bye_ , person-I-used-to-know.”

***

“Proper insolent twat, he is- left or right?” Louis voice runs on as he starts the engine of his car, which Harry had protested as a waste of time and petrol when they’d picked it up on the way to the pub.

“I dunno, depends where we’re going?” Harry points out, only slightly confused by the question. “And bullshit he is. I liked him. And despite all your moaning, it’s pretty obvious you’re fond of him too.”

Louis scoffs, but he grins at Harry with a roll of his eyes before checking down the street for traffic. “No idea where we’re going. Left or right?” When Harry still doesn’t respond, Louis sighs as he pulls out into the lane, yet his smile only seems to widen as he continues. “Fine, I’ve made the first decision. But we can’t stay on the same street forever; right, Haz?”

So that’s how it goes.

They talk, they laugh and point out people on the footpath, and every few minutes Louis will interrupt with a screech of “Choose!”, and Harry will call out a direction on instinct, resisting any urge to figure out approximately where they’re headed. Until there are no more people on the street, only paddocks and trees, and wide, wide blue sky.

They take turns at plugging their phones into the stereo and playing DJ; alternating between old favourites which they both sing along to – windows rolled down and breeze blowing slightly too cold onto their bare skin – and more recent songs the other maybe doesn’t know.

It’s an education both in music and the stories attached to them. Why Harry can’t hear ‘Party in the USA’ without thinking of the summer he and his best friends went camping in the last weeks before they all split up and left for uni, and the terrifying woman from the site next door who gave them all a dressing down the next morning for their ‘rampant disrespect’ (“ _Her husband was trying to make her calm down, poor sod, but honestly, we were all passed out blind drunk by ten thirty_ ”). And why ‘The Gambler’ will forever remind Louis of being fourteen and driving his mates mental as he and a friend shared an ear-bud apiece on Louis’ brand-spanking new mp3 player (“ _A whole 4GB, it was_ ”) and hollered along to it on repeat for over an hour at two in the morning.

And, because Harry asks, Louis tells him of Zayn – of the passion Harry had seen, and a talent for art which Harry hadn’t, but could picture with bright clarity as Zayn’s harsh angled frame stands in front of a canvas, broad strokes of colour striping its surface. How Zayn sacrifices all of it for a career he can support himself on, can look after his family with. How it’s family which trumps all the rest for Zayn; family and the boyfriend he leaves behind every time he comes back to university. How he’s happy regardless, has fallen for his studies, for the different kind of passion and set of talents it takes to put a person back together when they’re broken.

And Harry thinks about how, as surreally beautiful Zayn is – carefully drawn out and endlessly fascinating beneath the façade of too-cool-for-school – it’s the energy that radiates from the boy next to him that has Harry enraptured, who dragged him from his rinse and repeat Tuesday. Louis, whose nose crinkles as he tells the story of ‘All Summer Long’ reminding him of the upper sixth, when he and Zayn would get McDonald’s for breakfast before early morning chem tutes – an excuse for them all to consume muffins and energy drinks for breakfast while their chemistry teacher tried their best to teach them _something_ before their final exams.

It’s Louis he can’t look away from.

***

When they finally stop, it’s at a small seaside town; where the tourists have all but left for the day and the late afternoon breeze raises goosebumps on their arms.

There’s only the barest of swells as the waves roll in and out and Louis attempts to teach Harry how to skip pebbles with minimal success. He explains to him that this part of the coast never gets proper waves; that he’s never actually been to this town because he and a guy called Liam would always surf about an hour down the coast.

“Liam?”

“Yeah? The same one from all those stories.”

“You never mentioned his name.”

“Oh.” And Louis’ perplexed little frown is possibly one of the cuter things Harry’s seen in his life. “Well that’s him. One of my best mates since primary. He had the other earbud that one night. And was there for the camping. As well as pretty much every other moment ages eight through eighteen. Oh and he’s also Zayn’s MIA boyfriend for that matter.”

Harry watches Louis’ face warm with the same light it had when he’d regaled him with tales of mischief and mayhem and the steadfast friends next to him. And he’s already certain - from those stories, from knowing what small amount he knew of Zayn, and from the slight amount more he knew of Louis – that he’d like Liam.

“He didn’t come to uni with you and Zayn?”

Louis chuckles. “Nah. School was never exactly Liam’s strong point, you know? Don’t get me wrong, I love Liam to pieces, he’s brilliant at sport – fit in every sense of the word – and nice enough that he makes me and Zayn look like scoundrels next to him. But him and books and exams have never really been best mates, yeah?”

It still didn’t make perfect sense to Harry – he’d been brought up under the assurance that if only you applied then anyone could do well at school – but he took Louis at his word. He trusted him.

“So what’s he doing now? A job back home?”

This time Louis doesn’t hold back, snorting out a laugh and shaking his head. Harry’s just about to ask what exactly made that question so funny, but Louis gets in first.

“Well, he _was_ ; had a job at the factory where his Dad and uncles all work. He was happy enough, I think. But then – the lucky _sod_ – you know how I said we used to go out and surf further round the coast?” Harry nods. “Yeah, well Liam only got bloody scouted while he was out one day. Scouted for _surfing_ in flaming _England._ Of all the places…so now the asshole has swung himself an all expenses paid trip round the surfing circuit and _we_ get to sit in our cold ass flat and receive another postcard from the white sand tropics.”

The speech may have ended with insults and envy, but the pride is evident in Louis’ face.

“That’s incredible.”

“Really is, isn’t it? And if you talk to him, he’ll tell you it was all luck and chance and the one spectacular afternoon of weather that did it. But I swear that boy is half tortoise. Turtle? Something.” Louis frowns for the barest of seconds but shrugs it off as unimportant when the thought of something else reaches his eyes in a new sparkle. “Which is ironic as all hell considering his boyfriend can’t even swim.”

They’d long since stopped the futile lesson in stone skipping – Harry just couldn’t get his hands and arms to cooperate – but the few pebbles he’d held onto drop with dull thuds into the damp sand as this piece of information shocks a barking laugh out of Harry.

“What? _Surely_ he can?”

“Nope,” Louis grins with glee, dragging his bare feet through the shallow water, shoes swinging from one hand. “He’s like a cat or summat. One year back in high school we even bought him a set of floaties.”

“I’m starting to think you’re all completely ridiculous.”

The sun is behind Louis again, just like this morning, when he stood on the steps with a hand extended and unspoken secrets dancing on his lips. Harry has to squint to see him against the bright light, and it turns Louis into all white teeth and tanned skin, windswept hair and that laugh, already so distinctive.

“And I’m starting to think that, if it took you that long to figure that out, maybe you aren’t as bright as I thought.” Louis kicks his foot out, spattering Harry with water and leaving an obnoxious wet patch on his shirt.

“Prick.”

“Tosser,” Louis responds automatically, continuing on without missing a beat. “Dinner from the chippie?”

“We had chips for lunch.”

“And?”

“Fine, but I want chicken salt.”

***

They take their newspaper-wrapped packages back to the beach, watch the sun dip down beneath the horizon, their feet buried in the sand. Watch the seagulls flock closer with every stray chip thrown in their direction.

There’s still a hint of warmth in the last golden rays of light and Harry closes his eyes for a moment to let it brush his cheeks and to see the red glow dancing across the inside of his eyelids.

Louis hums next to him under his breath, a nonsensical tune, taps out a beat, a tattoo on Harry’s forearm.

When he breathes in, his lungs fill with the salt of the sea, of the chips, and the sharp freshness of air caught straight off the waves.

It’s all kinds of comfort, and Harry thinks he maybe wouldn’t mind being held still in this moment, this day, forever.

Concrete instead of sand.

***

The car ride back is largely silent; not uncomfortable, but quiet.

Harry watches the darkness stream by, the flicker of lights reflecting off the road markers as they speed past.

Louis seems to recognise he needs some time alone with his thoughts, doesn’t push him. Instead he sings softly under his breath, one song segueing smoothly into the next as they pass through his head.

He has a nice voice, Harry thinks, somewhere between awake and dozing, trying aimlessly to pick out half-remembered constellations among the stars.

In the black, he remembers Louis’ instructions.

_No time for hesitation._

He jolts slightly when Harry’s skin first makes contact with his, but Louis doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand for the rest of the journey.

***

Louis pulls onto a verge at the side of the road when they’re getting close to town; it’s a spot optimistically referred to as a ‘lookout’, but is really just a widened stretch of tarmac where you can stop for a moment; the edge of a hill just large enough to see the sprawl of lights through the windscreen, rising up from the darkness below.

He gives Harry’s hand a quick squeeze, then releases it altogether as he climbs out of the car without a word. Harry opens his own door and follows silently to the back of the car where Louis is half in the boot, grinning triumphantly when he raises a worn and relatively empty duffel in one hand.

“Prepared, aren’t you?”

“Always,” Louis confirms, leading them back around to the front of the car, tossing the bag onto the hood and jumping on after it. “For every eventuality.”

Harry climbs on too, knocking his shoulder into Louis’. “And which eventuality is this, then?” He doesn’t move away, and Louis makes no attempt to put some small millimetre of distance between them either, even as he reaches behind him to drag the duffel into his lap.

He rummages through it for a moment, passes Harry a stick, then searches for a few seconds longer. In the dim light, there’s a short _snick_ , and the flame from the lighter in Louis’ hand casts dancing shadows. Harry draws his eyes away from Louis’ features to the object in his own hands.

“Fireworks?”

“Can’t finish a day like today without a bang, can we?” Louis’ palm is cool now when it wraps around Harry’s, drawing the firework close enough to bring the lighter to the fuse.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Harry doesn’t quite draw his hand back, but he’s a little bit grateful that Louis’ having trouble getting the flame to take. “Aren’t you supposed to set them off in a clear bit? Stuck in the ground or something?”

Louis stops his attempts long enough to look incredulously at Harry. “You’ve never done this before? Oh my god, you really have missed out on some core experiences, Curly. Just hold _on_ to it, okay? You trust me?”

He’s still nervous, but Harry nods jerkily, looks back to where their hands overlap. This time, the fuse lights with a hiss, and Louis directs Harry’s arm out towards the city lights, then releases him, reclining back against the car. Harry misses the contact for all of a second and then-

_Bang._

_Colour_.

The _crackle_ and _pop_ of all the secondary explosions.

Louis goes after Harry, eyes sparkling whenever another burst of colour fires into the night sky, high above the city.

It’s in the middle of the third or fourth or fifth (Harry gets sidetracked by every joyous laugh that comes from Louis’ mouth) that Harry asks him. “Why me?”

And Louis waits – for the final _pop_ , and the night to settle back around them. The glow from the city beneath them and the stars above them are just enough to make out Louis’ expression, far too fond for someone who had never spoken to Harry before today.

“Because, before today, I hadn’t seen your smile for almost a week. Because, somehow, I miss it. Because, when you smile, I can’t not. Because I’ve been trying to work up the courage to speak to you for months. Because my mother has always told me I’m overly dramatic and because yesterday my lecturer told us that our entire history is barely a blink in existence and my future is so much less of a fraction of that.” He stops. Smiles at Harry in a way that has his breath catching and his heart stuttering like every single one of a thousand clichés. “But mostly because I’m selfish. Because _I_ wanted to be the one that made you smile again.”

And Harry doesn’t know how to respond to a confession like that. How to properly acknowledge the fact that this wonderful, beautiful, insane individual is sitting in front of him now, is doing so for the sole reason that he’d noticed Harry had been having a bad week. A bad week that wasn’t even _bad_ in its outcomes, just one of those times when everything feels heavier, harder, less bright than usual.

So he smiles.

Not just for Louis but because, _thanks_ to Louis, it’s all Harry’s felt like doing this entire day.

And then, when Louis returns it – _because maybe it’s true, maybe he can’t not_ – Harry’s world is as bright as the midday sun.

***

Louis drops Harry off outside his flat, gets out and walks him to the door like he isn’t quite ready for this to end either.

_For today._

“What happens when the world doesn’t owe us our today?” He blurts out, hoping Louis doesn’t detect that faint note of panic. “What happens tomorrow?”

Their words are spoken like a secret, a prayer.

Louis is standing right in front of him, barely a hands-breadth between them. Harry can’t quite make eye contact, but he can feel Louis’ eyes searching his face, he doesn’t know what.

“Faith. We have to have faith.”

“Is it scary? To have faith in something you’ve barely known for a day?” This time it’s Harry’s eyes roaming, searching, stilling when they meet Louis’. “That you aren’t even sure really exists?”

“Isn’t that the definition?”

“Tomorrow?” And Louis seems to know what Harry is asking.

Louis steps forward, into the last vestiges of Harry’s space. He stretches up, presses his lips to Harry’s cheeks; chaste, chapped from the wind and the salt of the ocean and Harry feels sand anchoring his feet once more.

“Tomorrow.”

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <33 
> 
> since i hardly ever write fluff (i had to fight every known instinct in this fic) I'd love to hear what you all think
> 
> xx


End file.
